


It Was In His Eyes

by TheBookOfWinchester



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Finstock - Freeform, Flashbacks, Funeral, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hero!Stiles, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapping, Lydia Martin Loves Stiles Stilinski, Malia - Freeform, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Psychological Trauma, Scott - Freeform, Sheriff - Freeform, Stiles, Stiles's death, Stiles-centric, Torture, lydia - Freeform, sad fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9415688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookOfWinchester/pseuds/TheBookOfWinchester
Summary: He never thought he would be here.Finstock stood under a large tree, people watching, as he avoided walking over to the rows of chairs waiting to be occupied.His tie was uncomfortable and his breathing was unnatural as he assessed his current state of mind.He never liked funerals, especially those of his students.***Where Lydia reflects on how exactly they ended up here.





	1. Among Gods We Are Only Men...

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm an asshole and have decided to write this to cause both myself and you guys everlasting pain and suffering. I got into a mood, and decided to write up some pain. There will be a follow up chapter in from Lydia's POV in which she explains Stiles's death and how he died a hero, so if you are a masochist and would like a second helping, stay tuned for that.

Her face was utterly blank. Pale untinted lips, unusual for the Martin girl, and a hollow gaze that bore right through him.  
  
Finstock removed himself from his station under a large tree to take a break from people watching. He wasn't sure he could bear it a minute longer. He'd pointedly avoided looking at the faces of the Sheriff and McCall, but had failed to realize in time that he especially should have avoided Lydia Martin's face. How could he have failed to make the connection between Lydia and Stilinski? The kid hadn't just made it past his puppy love for the girl, he'd forged for himself a starring role in the production of Lydia Martin's wellbeing.  The two were inseparable.  
  
Finstock decided he would rather see as few agonized faces as possible during the service, so he made his way across the lush green lawn towards the front row of chairs. Unfortunately, the risk he took in sitting so far forward was rewarded with heartache.  
  
The scene before him was void of too many grieving faces, but that left space to be filled with an unobstructed view of two large portraits of the boy he'd come to see and the casket in which his body lay. One portrait was the boy's senior yearbook photo. His black suit and calm, stoic expression lent to an air of seriousness he had never imagined the boy to possess. He would soon come to find out that this seriousness was rooted to the boy's core, driving every action (even those masquerading as silly), weighing down every decision, dictating his sense of morality and subsequently his everlasting guilt. The yearbook portrait encapsulated everything the boy wished he could show to others, a soft vulnerability and gentle demeanor, but alas, his defense mechanisms set in stone by way of fiery tribulation allowed for none of his innermost self to leak out. He wore a sarcastic ADHD barrier and he wore it well. Finstock would learn later more about the true character of Stilinski from his closest friends, but for now, he knew only the boy in the second photo. It was a candid action shot, taken presumably by one of his friends, in which his eyes crinkled into a gleeful squint, his mouth open wide in a haughty cackle, head thrown back in laughter, and his hands clasped in the midst of a mirthful clap. This was Stilinski as he knew him and as he would choose to remember him for the rest of his life.  
  
The casket was a beautifully rich whiskey color like the kid's eyes, which Finstock realized with a surprising stab of pain. Noting the mistake he'd made in sitting up front, he turned to search for another seat only to find that all fifty seats were filled with standing room only. There was easily an additional hundred and fifty students and adults standing behind and around the rows of chairs.  
  
Finstock supposed that if one really wanted a big turnout at their funeral, it helped to die young.  
  
Finally, after another agonizing five minutes, a man who looked to be a pastor made his way towards a podium. "What a beautiful day it is today", he spoke. The crowd silently agreed, everyone simultaneously taking a moment to admire the ever gentle spring breeze filtering through the air. "It is both beautiful and heartbreaking to be out here with you all today. Put simply, a terrible tragedy has befallen us here and the best that we can hope to do is to put one foot in front of the other, and then we will wake up tomorrow and do the same, and the day after that. But for now, it is time for us to stand together. We will cry together, we will laugh together, we will mourn together."  
  
Finstock noticed the increasingly choppy breathing of those around him. Who could blame them?  
  
After a few minutes of the pastor's lovely words about Stilinski - an honest and emboldening summary of  his short life (many bullet points of which Finstock was intrigued to learn, such as the trauma of his mother's death and his campaign to protect his father's health among other things) followed by a few anecdotes about the boy from the pastor's perspective - the microphone was opened up to close family and friends. His only family however was his father who was too distraught to say anything for fear of breaking down, so McCall stepped forward.  
  
McCall cleared his throat before launching into the most endearing set of stories Finstock had ever heard from someone so young. McCall was determined to lighten people's hearts and it was working. By the end of his seemingly endless stream of tales in which Stilinski saved the day or said something horrendously stupid or committed a deed so selfless that it would be shameful to not share, the crowd was crying tears of laughter and joy. He wrapped up by saying, "Stiles would hate for all of you to cry today, so don't cry. Just think about his dazzling personality, it'll pick you right up." That earned a chuckle. "In all seriousness, Stiles is irreplaceable. He'll always be my best friend. Till the end of my days and beyond." If this were a sporting event, Finstock would have clapped McCall on the back and screamed in his ear about how he feels like a proud father. But this wasn't a sporting event, this was Stiles Stilinski's funeral. And Stilinski was like a son.  
  
Lydia took the podium next. She wore an expression that seemed as if she didn't know where to begin. "Most of you knew Stiles as the smartest kid in school. Second to me of course." That earned a chuckle from the crowd. "His genius is something that I can't possibly put into words, but I will try. His mind was complex and beautiful -he'd talk circles around me in an argument, but he'd always let me win. He let me have whatever I needed, not what I wanted. That's what a beautiful person does. They know exactly what you need before you're even aware of it, they claw through the mud just to make you smile on a bad day, they never allow anything objectionable to touch you even if it's the thing you want most in the world. That's who Stiles was. He was a beautiful person who never for a minute believed he was worthy." This was a surprise to Finstock because Stilinski exuded an incomprehensible amount of confidence, and Finstock believed he was worthy of most things and that he knew it. "He still couldn't believe that he was on first line of the lacrosse team. He said it always felt like a dream every time he showed up for practice and Coach would say to him and Scott 'There they are! The Dream Team finally decided to show up'". Lydia looked directly at Finstock, smiling slightly. "You were someone he looked up to, despite how infuriated you made him sometimes." He pursed his lips, in an attempt to keep his own tears at bay. It was a band aid at best, but he had resolved to not cry through the ordeal. Lydia smiled full on this time, "He always thanked his lucky stars that he had someone who wouldn't put up with his bullshit. He liked that you didn't care if he was ADHD or having a bad day or untalented at lacrosse, you were going to push him relentlessly to work as hard as everyone else and do better. Regardless of that little facial expression where he sticks his tongue out a little and squints his eyes when he's supremely irritated, he loved when you screamed right in his face or demanded he do suicides until it ended in actual suicide. No one else would dare scream at Stiles, we just didn't have it in us, but you treated him like you treat everyone else and you fueled him. He was so supportive of everyone that he never let his anger or despair out of its cage, but you fueled him and let him burn out his feelings so that when the rest of us came calling again and again, he was his same old self, ready to come up with a miraculous plan to solve everyone's problems all at once. Do you remember, Coach, that Stiles would always randomly drop in to your office during lunch to pester you?" Finstock definitely remembered. He'd spent glasses and glasses of scotch trying to forget how often Stiles would barge into his office already partway into a rant about the intricacies of sports psychology or the mechanics of the failing school system in which both teachers and students were abused and stay for the rest of lunch. He'd tried to forget the irritation, but he remembered, so he nodded his head silently as she spoke. "He would never admit this in a million years, but he annoyed you during lunch so that he could check in on you. You're always surrounded by people: students, athletes, teachers. He knew the damage that can be done when someone who is never alone is alone, so he occupied you as often as he could. He could handle you being annoyed with him; he couldn't handle you being lonely." Suffice to say, Finstock's eyes betrayed him. His face was flushed and wet with tears. Lydia moved on to other things that Stilinski did for people that no one knew about, only worsening the quiet sounds of mourning from the audience. Finstock had until now thought that Stilinski flew under the radar of most people. He hadn't thought about the notion that other people could be as quietly affected by the boy as he himself was. From every speaker he'd learned about Stilinski's good deeds and involvement in the community, from habitually helping strangers with their homework and holding open doors all the way to solving some of the Sheriff's most confounding cases and saving people's lives in one way or another. Stiles Stilinski: hero. Who knew? Certainly not Finstock. Lydia finished with, "Out of decency, I won't give any details about Stiles's death, but the one thing you all need to know is that he died in order to save another person. He gave up his life so that someone else could live. That's the only thing that matters and it is why we should all be grateful that we knew him rather than sad that he's gone."  
  
Malia Tate explained how Stilinski took her under his wing after he'd rescued her from the wild. He was solely responsible for integrating her back into society and he, Scott, and Lydia were the reason she wasn't failing every class. He gave her a closeness and love that she would never share with anyone ever again. In an inappropriate turn, she mentioned that sure, she would definitely have sex again, but she'd just wish it were Stilinski because he was that good. Though she'd never have told him that to his face. Finstock couldn't help the hearty laugh that escaped him, "Thatta boy, Stilinski!" Everyone's uneasiness turned to laughter. Finstock himself never thought the kid had it in him and was abundantly proud in his own weird way.  
  
The rest of the service was surprisingly uplifting. Stilinski's life was unfathomably short, short enough for Finstock to protest God Himself, but there was no denying that there was never a dull moment. He was arguably the most selfless person Finstock had ever met, in fact, often too selfless to be an athlete, but certainly a team player.  
  
When he got home, Finstock absent-mindedly gravitated towards his minibar, pouring himself a three finger of whiskey. Bringing the amber drink to his lips, he stopped, remembering the one time he'd ever gone to morning practice drunk. The team didn't know the difference between his intoxicated self and his sober self due to his nonsensical nature even in a sober state, so all was well and good until Stilinski had silently popped up next to him while the rest of the team was running drills. He covertly dumped two mints into Finstock's open hand and muttered without taking his eyes off the field, "I can smell it on you, you fucking idiot," before running out to join his friends. Stilinski never reported him or even brought it up again, but they were both silently aware from then on that the kid was going to keep him accountable. The boy had gotten his dad's drinking under control and he'd gotten Finstock under control, which he had to respect.  
  
He walked over to the kitchen sink, draining the glass into the basin. If he couldn't drink away his despair, he would sleep it away. Before heading to his bedroom, he typed up an email to the lacrosse players. Practice would be canceled for the next week and all athletic periods were to be study halls in the library. The only class that was unavoidable in its misery was third period economics. Finstock would not be able to avert his eyes from the empty seat near the center of class. Merely the anticipation of this steeped his gloom and prompted his retreat to the bedroom where he shut the curtains and descended into unconsciousness without even taking his shoes off. If there wasn't drinking, there was always sleep, quietly waiting to take the edge off.


	2. But He Was The Best of Us: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lead up to Lydia remembering what happened to Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been ten months. I've produced basically nothing for a very long time. I AM SO SORRY. I promised a follow up chapter and never gave y'all one. I've been thinking about it since I wrote the first one and have been writing since this summer, but I am unbelievably busy and I really want to get it right, so I've been marking up the draft like crazy, I mean the thing is metaphorically soaking in red ink.  
>  So, what this chapter is is what I've passed through my editing and decided will stay as is. It is Lydia in the hospital the day after Stiles's death, trying to remember why she is there. Stiles's actual death will be in part two which will follow soon.   
>  I have two tests this week and a paper plus homework so that probably won't be here until next week. Please forgive me. The planning that has gone into that is stressful and difficult, so the writing isn't finished, but I promise it is under way.  
>  Thank y'all so much for being so patient. I am so sorry that this is all I can give y'all at the moment.

Lydia couldn’t quite make sense of her world at the moment. Each time she attempted to open her eyes, her pupils fought back. There was apparently no place for stark lighting in Lydia’s existence right now. After quite some time engaged in a battle of wills with her body, Lydia pried her eyes open, mentally staggering at the sensation of vertigo. _Blink. Blink again. Good, there you go, that’s it._ Her self-coaching seemed to be working as she successfully fought back nausea and tears. As the bleariness subsided, it became more and more apparent that her surroundings were familiar, yet not. A hospital, yes. One she knew, not quite.

        Standard bedding, bare walls, and plain chairs were the sight that greeted Lydia in her first assessment of the room; however, another glance revealed that the cabinetry was composed of a glossed wood finish, the blinds were actually a double layered swath of curtains designed to keep light out wholly, and upon further inspection, Lydia discovered that her hospital gown was of an acceptable level of softness. This was either a higher-end room or she was no longer in Beacon Hills, a town in which none of these things could be afforded by tax payer dollars.

        The sunlight darting into her room could indicate either sunrise or sunset, and Lydia’s foggy brain just could not be bothered to extract the minute differences between the two to try and decide which it was. It was unclear to Lydia why she was alone in a hospital room attached to an IV drip and bandaged Lord-knows-where, but she surmised that food had not been a regular part of her routine in the last few days.

        Periodically, Lydia would feel an overwhelming surge of panic, a memory fighting its way towards the surface, swell up over her before ebbing away, retreating into the depths of her mind. It was disorienting. Her concussed brain was trying to tell her something and she wanted so badly to listen, however, the sensation of hunger again flooded her.

       Standing up was agony. She teetered dangerously to and fro for perhaps a moment longer than would seem acceptable before saying _to hell with it_ and charging towards a simple pair of hospital issue slippers. She desperately wanted answers as quickly as she could find them. Maybe a nurse or doctor could fill her in, or at least direct her towards some food, so she made her way to the hallway. Dragging her IV stand down the hall proved more annoying than difficult, luckily. Her side ached in a wretched fashion, but she held her posture such that one would assume she were here for a strep test or a flu shot, not what she was beginning to realize was likely a set of very serious injuries. The hospital was neither lively nor barren; emergency rooms excluded, it had the expected amount of foot traffic for the average medical center. At least Lydia could deduce that she had not been part of some sort of horrible terrorist incident. So far, so normal.

         A sudden flare in her chest wretched its way through her body as memories of ghouls and monsters paraded through her head. A not so gentle reminder of the pace of her life. With most of her memories slowly returning to her, she decided to return to the task of scavenging for food. IV drip aside, it shouldn’t be hard to manipulate someone in the cafeteria to buy her some grub.

 

        Belly now full, she embarked to her hospital room. As she set out in the final stretch of the hallway where her room was, she saw that Liam stood apprehensively against the wall opposite her room, a morose expression adorning his face. “Liam”, she croaked. Her throat was fresh sandpaper. His face shot up in her direction before he sprang up off the wall and walked quickly in her direction, surprising her with a tight embrace. She’d never actually hugged Liam before, so she shoved the pain down and wrapped her arms around him to return the gesture. An eternity passed before a sniffle emitted softly from Liam’s nose. She loosened her grip to look him in the face. “Hey, what’s wrong? Where is everybody?”

        “They’re, uh, they’re handling something.” He looked wrecked.

        “What hospital is this? Why aren’t we in Beacon Hills?”

        “I think it’s called Kaiser something. We’re in San Francisco, Lydia.”

        Her vision began to spin and blur. Memories were fighting their way to the surface of her consciousness, but something in her fought them down. She was dazed and anxious, but she had to know what happened. Why couldn’t she bring those memories back?

        “Hey, hey are you alright, Lyds?” Liam steadied her with his arms, gently guiding her to her room to sit down. “Lydia, what’s the last thing you remember?”

        She had thought long and hard on that. She vaguely remembered being in Stiles’s room with him, discussing something, a hunch. A hunch on what? God, why couldn’t she remember? She said as much to Liam, and he decided it was time to call Scott. When Scott arrived, his glassy eyes met Lydia’s for a beat too long before he closed the distance between them to envelope her. During their embrace, he breathed in her scent, deep and long, memorizing everything. The springtime allure of flowers and sprigs after a gentle drizzle with a touch of the heavy, woodsy scent of pine and dirt and anxiety that belonged to Stiles. Stiles’s scent always made its way in part onto Lydia’s body. She was the first to pull away from their embrace.

        “Please, Scott. What’s going on?” she begged.

        “Lydia, before I say anything to you, I need to know exactly what you know. It’s important that you tell me everything.”

        “I don’t know anything! It’s all gone. Everything that was up here,” she gestured towards her skull, “is in the wind. All I know is that I’m scared. I’m freaking out and I don’t know why. It’s like my brain is on fire because I know something important, but I don’t know it. My throat is shredded and there’s this itch in the back of my mind like an omen. Something happened and I just, I just--“

        Scott shushed her and held her again to stop the hyperventilation that was imminent. After a moment, he spoke quietly, “Lydia, we need your memories. All of them. The only way to get them, I think, is for me to go in and get them.”

        Her eyes snapped up to his as her head shook involuntarily. “What? No, it’s too dangerous. Whatever’s in there was nasty enough for my subconscious to erase them. My mind literally decided I was better off without them.”

        “Lydia, please!” he shouted. Softer then, he added, “Please. The man who did this…to you…he’s still out there. The only way we’re gonna catch him is if you remember everything. We don’t even know what he looks like.” In a small voice, he added “Plus, I need to know.”

        Lydia’s head quirked in confusion. “Know what?”

        “How it happened. I need to know what it was like in the end. I need to know what he went through.” Scott’s eyes were lost in a faraway place. Lydia’s confusion and terror climbed ever higher with Scott’s cryptic message, and it must have shown on her face because Scott straightened his posture and cleared his throat before swiping his hand over his mouth and adding, “We’ll uh, we’ll talk about it later. For now, this is all we’ve got Lydia.”

        She was resigned to agree with him, so they set to work making sure the hallway was clear before Liam locked the door, and the alpha poised himself behind the banshee. With one final breath, he plunged his claws into her spine.


End file.
